"What else?" he asked.
"Emmett Roberts wants you to call. He needs your opinion on a car he's buying."
Myron drove a Ford Taurus, hardly qualifying him as MotorTrend's Man of the Year.
Emmett was a fringe basketball player who bounced between bench-sitting in the NBA and starring in the Continental Basketball Association – a sort of basketball minor league where players do nothing but try to impress NBA scouts. Very few do. There were exceptions. John Starks and Anthony Mason of the Knicks, to name two. But for the most part the CBA gymnasiums were yet another haven of shattered dreams, a bottom rung on the ladder before slipping off altogether.
Myron fingered through his Rolodex. Esperanza was good about keeping it up-to-date and in alphabetical order for him. Raston. Ratner. Rextell. Rippard. Roberts. There. Emmett Roberts.
Myron stopped.
"Where's Duane's card?" he asked.
"What?"
Myron quickly skimmed through the rest of the R's. "Duane Richwood isn't in my Rolodex. Could you have misfiled it?"
She dismissed that possibility with a glare. "Look around. It's probably on your desk someplace."
Not on the desk. Myron tried the D's. No Duane.
"I'll make you up a new one," she said, heading for the door. "Try not to lose it this time."
"Thanks a bunch," he said. Still, the missing card gnawed at him. Another coincidence involving Duane? He dialed Emmett Roberts's phone. Emmett answered.
"Hey, Myron. How's it going?"
"Good, Emmett. What's this about buying a car?"
"I saw this Porsche today. Red. Fully loaded. Seventy Gs. I was thinking about using the play-off bonus money to buy it."
"If that's what you want," Myron said.
"Man, you sound like my mother. I wanted your opinion."
"Buy something cheaper," Myron said. "A lot cheaper."
"But the car is so hot, Myron. If you could just see it…"
"Then buy it, Emmett. You're an adult. You don't need my blessing." Myron hesitated. "Did I ever tell you about Norm Booker?"
"Who?"
How soon they forget.
"I was maybe fifteen or sixteen years old," Myron said, "and I was working at this summer camp in Massachusetts. It was a Celtics camp. They used to have their rookie tryouts there. I was basically a towel boy. I met a lot of the draft picks back then. Cedric Maxwell. Larry Bird. But my first year the Celtics had a first-round pick named Norm Booker. I think he was out of Iowa State."
"Yeah, so?"
"Norm was a great player. Six-seven, smooth moves, nice touch. Strong as an ox. And nice guy too. He talked to me. Lot of the guys ignored the towel boys, but Norm wasn't like that. I remember he used to shoot foul shots with his back to the basket. He'd toss the ball over his shoulder. He had such a great touch that he could make better than fifty percent that way."
"So what happened to him?"
"He sat the bench as a rookie. The Celtics cut him the next year. He scrounged around a bit and then he landed with the Portland Trailblazers. He mostly rode the bench, played garbage time, that sort of thing. When the Trailblazers made the play-offs Norm got the usual bonus. He was so excited about it he went out and bought a Rolls-Royce. Dropped every dime he had on that car. But he wasn't worried. There was always next year. And the year after that. Only thing was, Portland cut him. He tried out with a couple of other clubs, but nobody wanted him. Last I heard Norm had to sell the car to feed his family."
Silence.
After some time passed Emmett said, "I also saw this Honda Accord. They had a pretty good lease deal."
"Go for it, Emmett."
They hung up a few minutes later. Myron hadn't thought about Norm Booker in a long time. He wondered what became of him.
Esperanza came back in. She put a new card for Duane Richwood in his Rolodex. "Happy?"
"Yes." He handed her two sheets of paper. "This is a party list for the night Alexander Cross was killed."
"What am I looking for?"
"Heck if I know. A familiar name. Something that leaps out at you."
She nodded. "You know about the funeral tomorrow?"
Myron nodded.
"You going?" she asked.
"Yes."
"I tracked down one of the schoolteachers from the article on Curtis Yeller."
"Which one?"
"Mrs. Lucinda Elright She's retired now, lives in Philadelphia. She'll see you tomorrow afternoon. You can go right after the funeral."
Myron leaned back. "I'm not sure that's necessary anymore."
"You want me to cancel?"
Myron thought a moment. In light of what he'd learned about Pavel Menansi, the connection between Valerie's murder and what happened to Curtis Yeller seemed more tenuous than ever. The murder of Alexander Cross had not caused Valerie's downfall. It wasn't even the final push. Pavel Menansi had pushed Valerie off the cliff years before. He had watched her slowly plummet, tumbling over jagged rocks on her painful way down. Alexander Cross's death had marked the end of the descent. The ground, if you will. The final crash. Nothing more. Clearly there was no connection between Valerie's death and the events of six years ago. There was also no connection between Duane and Valerie other than what Duane had said – they slept together. No big deal.
Except…
Except for last night's rendezvous between Duane and Curtis Yeller's mother.
If not for that – if Myron hadn't seen them together at the hotel – he would be able to dismiss them both entirely. But Duane and Deanna Yeller having an affair – it was too much of a coincidence. There had to be a connection.
"Don't cancel," Myron said.
Chapter 31
Valerie's funeral was strictly cookie-cutter.
The reverend, a porky man with a red nose, hadn't known her with any depth. He listed achievements as though reading from a resume. He mixed in a few oldies but goodies: loving daughter; so full of life; taken so young; God has a plan. An organ sounded self-righteous indignation. Tacky flowers, like something you'd find draped around a winning horse, adorned the chapel. Stem stain-glass figures peered from above.
The crowd did not linger long. They stopped by Helen and Kenneth Van Slyke, not so much to offer comfort but to be sure they'd been seen and recognized, which was the real reason they'd come in the first place. Helen Van Slyke shook hands with her head high. She did not blink. She did not smile. She did not cry. Her jaw was set. Myron waited in the receiving line with Win. As they got closer they could hear Helen repeat the same phrases – "Good of you to come, thank you for coming, good of you to come, thank you for coming" – in a singsong voice reminiscent of a flight attendant upon disembarkation.
When it was Myron's turn Helen gripped his hand hard. "Do you know who hurt Valerie?"
"Yes." She had said hurt, Myron noted. Not kill.
Helen Van Slyke looked at Win for confirmation. Win nodded.
"Come back to the house," she said. "There's going to be a reception." She turned to the next mourner and hit PLAY on her internal tape recorder. "Good of you to come, thank you for coming, good of you to come…"
Myron and Win did as she asked. The mood at Brentman Hall was neither Irish wake-like nor devastating grief. There were no tears. No laughter. Either would have been more welcome than this room completely void of any emotion. "Mourners" milled around like they were at an office cocktail party.
"No one cares," Myron said. "She's gone and no one cares."
Win shrugged. "No one ever does." The eternal optimist.
The first person to approach them was Kenneth. He was dressed in proper black with well-shined shoes. He greeted Win with a back slap and a firm handshake. He ignored Myron.
"How are you holding up?" Win asked. Like he cared.
"Oh I'm doing okay," he said with a heavy sigh. Mr. Brave. "But I'm worried about Helen. We've had to medicate her."